Witch Hunt
by Devryn
Summary: One-shot: Hermione Granger has an unfortunate accident with a time turner and finds herself in the company of Judge Claude Frollo in 15th century Paris.


**A/N: This is a "parody" fic written in response to a prompt from friends and fellow authors, rockstop57 and Jeemers. The prompt? "Disney!Frollo and Hermione Granger." This is how I chose to get those two together, and this story is meant to amuse and is not at all serious. So never mind the OOCness and AU!  
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**No infringement upon any copyrighted work is intended. Any recognizable characters or references are not my own.**

**Rated 'T' for implied adult situations.**

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><p>Despite being one of the most brilliant witches of her age (or any age, according to some more flattering reports), there were a few things that Hermione Granger did not know – not that she would readily admit them. One such gap in her knowledge proved to be most disastrous – or, at least, it <em>began <em>as disastrous. The bushy-haired witch had read nearly every book on the topic of magic, save the very obscure, of course, and it was just such a tome that would have saved her from trouble: _Time and Relative Dimensions in Space _by an anonymous physician, apparently, who solely identified himself as a "Doctor." There were understandably few copies of this rare book to be found in the wizarding world (or even elsewhere), and so it was that Hermione Jean Granger made the mistake of using a time turner in the proximity of a portkey.

She'd simply been intending to give herself a few extra hours to get ready for her outing with Ron – their first as an official "couple" – and, normally, she would never have resorted to using the device for such a paltry reason, but the War was over, and concerns turned more domestic. Hermione had completely forgotten the portkey had been lying there (well, it _was _shaped like a toothpick, so it was easy to miss!), and when she used her time turner, something very bizarre took place.

Rather than finding herself still in her home only a few hours earlier, she woke up with a throbbing headache, face down in the mud, in a dark alley she didn't recognize. The air smelt of smoke and excrement, and the cobblestones in the street were rough beneath her. Hermione sat up, groggy and dizzy, and glanced around for any signs of where she might be or clues as to what might have happened. Diagon Alley? No, it was much too dark, much too cramped. Not even Knockturn Alley, then – everything was much too foreign. Then how did she end up here?

Hermione stood up, cradling her head as she considered the issue. What had she been doing just before now? Using the time turner. Where had she been then? Ah, yes, the kitchen. Well, what was _in _the kitchen? She ran a mental inventory of everything she could remember and nearly face-palmed when she recalled the container of toothpicks on the table. The portkey! That damned portkey! It must have been some mistake, though, for she was pretty sure it didn't lead _here_, wherever "here" was.

Well, whatever _had_ happened, it didn't matter. She'd obviously made a mistake and should just return from wherever she was in time for her date. It would take a few good hours with hair smoothing charms just to fix her bushy coif anyway! Thoughts on what she would wear, Hermione attempted to apparate back to her flat but found that she went precisely….no where. She tried once more, and a third time, just for good measure. Still, no effect. She tried to apparate just across the street, but that, too, was in vain.

It was very troubling, and a sense of panic welled up inside her, but Hermione had been through a war and had seen worse, so she forced herself to remain calm and cautiously left the alley to explore the streets beyond.

It didn't take long for the clever witch to figure out that she was in France - her fairly advanced understanding of the language helped her translate all of the building signs and street names she saw, as well as eavesdrop on a few passing conversations - and it was obviously Paris, but no Paris she knew. There were no electric lights or any other modern conveniences she had grown up with as a muggle-born witch. _Where were all the cars? Was she at some kind of incredibly enthusiastic Renaissance fair? _But, no, everyone was staring at her very strangely - her clothes _did _make her stand out - and whispers started to converge into a crowd, glaring at her suspiciously.

The crowd grew into a mob, shouting insults at her, convinced she must be an enemy because of her strange clothing, and someone called for the guard. On sight, the guardsmen immediately moved to arrest her, and Hermione fled, dodging peasants, hay carts, and thrown croissants. They clearly had the advantage, though, since she had no clue where she was going, and when she was cornered, the young witch reacted instinctively, shouting _Stupefy! _at one of the guards. This spell had its intended effect - _why, then, hadn't her attempts to apparate worked? _- but she was soon physically overpowered by the second guard, angered by the sight of his comrade attacked by what was clearly witchcraft. There was only one thing to do, then, with this consort of the Devil, and one sharp knock to the head sent Hermione's world spiraling into black.

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><p><em>Merlin's beard, what happened to me? <em>Hermione awoke with _another_ throbbing headache in yet _another _place foreign to her (this pattern was beginning to become tiresome). It was dark, dank, and smelled of sweat and fear: a cell in a dungeon. She'd grown familiar enough with them during the War. She hurriedly felt around her person for her wand, reaching to search her pockets but not finding any. She was clothed merely in her underthings now. _As Ronald would say: "Bloody hell." _She mentally cursed as her hands started to rummage through the dirty hay on the floor of her cell but froze in place at the sound of a voice.

"Looking for this?"

Its owner leered mockingly at her from outside her cell, an older man dressed in black robes. He held her wand between two long, bony fingers.

Hermione had no response but to stare at him, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

"Yes, _yes, _I thought so. Tell me, witch, what has the Devil bade you do?"

"I am not a witch!" It was a lie, of course, but she really _wasn't _in the sense that she gathered he meant (she still was not sure how it had happened, but, clearly, she was in some sort of Parisian prison in the _past_, but she could figure out the "how" of it later; right now, escape was her number one priority). But Hermione Granger was a rotten liar, and her voice quaked with the words.

Frollo caught on to the deception in her tone quickly and grinned triumphantly. "Do you know who I am, little witch?" He didn't give her time to answer. "Judge Claude Frollo." He announced the name and title proudly, as though it ought to mean something to her. Strangely enough, it _did _sound oddly familiar. "I do not know your name, but that is irrelevant, for I know _what _you are, and that is a pawn of Satan himself."

The door to her cell swung open, and even though Hermione tried to make a break for it, he caught her in his deceptively strong grip and dragged her over to some sort of cross-like torture device, strapping her arms and legs in place. She screamed and begged, fighting back and scratching out with her fingernails, but it was of no use. She was bound in place.

"Please, _please, _there must have been some mistake. My name is Hermione Granger, and I'm supposed to be in London, not here. Something - something's gone wrong."

Frollo laughed cruelly - a sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Mlle. Granger." He said her name in mocking tones. "A foreign spy _and _a witch. What a delicious surprise. The only 'mistake,' my little witch, is that you have been caught later than we would have liked."

He reached forward, eyes wild, and grasped her arms roughly. "You _will _tell me what mischief the Devil has wrought through you."

"No! I've done nothing wrong."

"You wish to take the difficult path, then. Very well. I am _far _more skilled at this game than you, Mlle. Granger. You will lose." Frollo held up her wand, each hand poised on an opposite end in a silent threat. "Should you refuse to tell me, I will break this instrument of Satan, no doubt given to you after congress with the Beast."

She shook her head, terrified. Without her wand, she would be trapped here until she could somehow acquire another, but she had no information with which to sate her captor. Hermione clenched her eyes shut as her wand snapped in two.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and suddenly Frollo was much too close, his hands all over her. "If you will not confess, witch, then you leave me no choice. I will find evidence of the Devil's touch upon you, for regardless of the lies you spew, no untruth can mask the Mark."

He ripped her clothes off with a reckless fury, and she screamed at the sight of the menagerie of needles and other sharp implements he'd gathered nearby. All to test and prod until he found a spot that did not bleed - the Devil's Mark.

Frollo's hands roamed over her now, a needle teasingly close to pricking her, and she screamed and cried, hurling insults. She'd been tortured before - painful memories of Bellatrix's treatment sprang to mind - but she could not remain as stoic as she had before. Something about this man's touch unnerved her, and not solely because it was unbidden and threatening.

He simply laughed triumphantly, reveling in her reaction. "Ah, Mlle. Granger, save your breath for confession. Your words can not wound me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me."

Hermione was fairly certain that was _not _how the rhyme went (and his words did seem oddly familiar), but she did not dwell on it, for the first needle was just about to puncture her skin….

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><p>"<em>Sex in the air<em>

_I don't care_

_I love the smell of it…."_

Hermione rolled over with a groan and slammed her alarm clock into the "off" position. _Stupid radio. How many times did they have to play that song? _

Her sleepy, clumsy movements knocked the book she had been reading into the floor.

She sat up in bed, still a little groggy. _That dream….it felt so real. _Her skin pimpled into goosebumps at the memory of it, and she reached down to pick up the novel that had fallen. Victor Hugo's _The Hunchback of Notre Dame._

"OK, that's it." Hermione chided herself aloud. "No more 'light reading' before bedtime."

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><p><em>AN: The song mentioned, in case anyone is unsure, is Rihanna's "S&M." Just like Hermione, I was haunted by a string of mornings waking up to that song on my alarm clock._


End file.
